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The  Blowing  Up  of  the  Ironclad  "Albemarl* 
by  Captain  Howard  Patterson,  U.  S.  N. 


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Onitietsitp  of  Jl3ort&  Carolina 


Collection  of  jgottf)  Catoltniana 

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Uo&n  g)ptunt  $ili 

of  the  Class  of  1889 

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HARPEKS 

YOUNG  PEOPLE 


Copyright,  1895,  by  Harper  &  Brothers.     All  Rights  Reserved. 


PUBLISHED    WEEKLY. 
VOL.  XVI.— SO.  797. 


NEW  YORK,  TUESDAY,  FEBRUARY  5,  1895. 


FIVE  CENTS  A  COPY. 
TWO   DOLLARS  A   YEAR. 


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THE    BLOWING    UP    OF    THE    IRONCLAD    "ALBEMARLE." 


BY    CAPTAIN    HOWARD    PATTERSON,  U.S.N. 


IT  is  the  night  of  October  27, 1864.     A  blockading-  fleet 
of  Union  vessels  rides  at  anchor  off  the  harbor  of 
Plymouth,  North  Carolina.     Alongside  the  flag-ship  an 

open  launch  is  secured, 
her  after -part  made 
visible  to  those  on 
board  the  over-tower- 
ing ship  owing  to  the 
glow  that  comes  from 
the  open  door  of  the 
little  furnace.  The 
light  that  streams 
forth  also  throws  into 
relief  the  face  and  form 
of  the  engineer  as  he 
spreads  a  layer  of 
"  greeu  "  coals  over 
the  surface  of  the  fire, 
and  thrusts  the  slen- 
lieutenant  cushing.  der  brass  spout  of  his 


oil -can  into  the  various  feed- cups  of  the  machinery. 
Just  abaft  the  cockpit,  holding  the  stern  of  the  launch 
to  the  frigate  by  means  of  a  boat-hook,  stands  a  blue- 
jacket, his  naked  feet  showing  as  two  white  patches 
on,,  the  lead-colored  planks.  Another  seaman  is  perform- 
ing a  similar  office  forward  in  the  bow,  while  several 
more  are  gathered  about  a  long,  curious -looking  spar 
carefully  secured,  with  its  cylinder-shaped  head  resting 
on  a  wad  of  cotton  waste ;  but  these  men  are  lost  to  view, 
owing  to  the  gloom  of  their  situation,  which  is  deepened 
by  contrast  to  the  firelight  aft.  At  the  open  gangway  of 
the  flag-ship  two  officers  stand  conversing.  Beside  them 
a  gray-haired  quartermaster  is  stationed,  lantern  in  hand, 
to  light  the  way  down  the  ladder  that  leads  to  the  launch. 
In  the  shoulder-straps  of  one  of  the  officers  glistens  a  sin- 
gle silver  star,  which  denotes  his  Commodore's  rank, while 
the  two  gold  bars  that  decorate  the  straps  of  the  other  show 
him  to  be  a  Lieutenant.  As  the  latter  is  observed  in  the 
rays  of  the  lantern,  his  smooth  face  and  slender  figure  are 
suggestive  rather  of  extreme  youth  than  of  a  man  quali- 


242 


HARPER'S  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 


VOLUME  XVL 


1 


fied  by  years  and  experience  to  assume  the  office  that  his 
uniform  represents.  The  gold  bands  around  his  coat 
sleeves  have  been  nobly  won,  however,  and  the  boy  of 
nineteen,  who  entered  the  service  three  years  previous  as 
a  master's  mate,  has  already  commanded  with  singular 
and  enviable  distinction  a  gunboat  of  the  blockading 
squadron.  There  is  a  touch  of  fatherly  tenderness  and  a 
depth  of  anxiety  in  the  old  Commodore's  voice  as  he  speaks: 

"  Cushing,  my  boy,  you  are  going  to  almost  certain 
death;  the  rebels  have  learned  of  your  object,  and  are 
prepared  for  the  attempt.  The  Albemarle,  as  you  know, 
is  surrounded  with  heavy  floating  timbers  so  arranged 
that  you  cannot  get  within  thirty  feet  of  her,  and  unless 
you  can  succeed  in  laying  your  boat  alongside,  how  can 
you  expect  to  explode  the  torpedo?" 

The  lines  of  the  Lieutenant's  thinly  cut  mouth  deepen, 
and  the  brows  draw  ominously  down  over  the  flashing 
eyes. 

"  Commodore,  I've  got  my  plan  all  worked  out,  and 
I'll  carry  it  through  or  die  with  it!  If  I  don't  succeed  in 
destroying  that  ironclad,  she  will  come  out  here  before 
long,  and  perhaps  sink  the  fleet.  It's  worth  the  risk,  sir, 
and  I'm  williug  to  take  it  along  with  my  volunteer  crew." 
Then,  as  his  natural  spirit  of  recklessness  and  humor 
comes  to  the  surface  for  a  moment,  he  smiles  and  con- 
tinues, "It's  either  another  stripe  or  death,  Commodore." 

The  flag-officer  presses  the  young  man's  hand,  while 
lie  says,  huskily,  "God  bless  and  grant  you  success  and 
a  safe  return !" 

Preceded  by  the  quartermaster,  Lieutenant  Cushing 
descends  the  gangway  ladder  and  drops  into  the  launch. 

"Lieutenant,"  sa\'s  the  old  man,  "there  won't  be  no 
sleep  in  the  fleet  to-night;  if  ye'll  hexcuse  the  liberty, 
sir,  I'll  be  a-prayin'  for  ye." 

"All  right,  Lynch;  but  pray  hard,  for  I'll  need  it," 
replies  Cushing.  Then  he  looks  at  the  face  of  the  little 
dial  which  registers  the  steam-pressure,  and  turns  to  the 
engineer:  "Keep  a  full  head  of  steam  up,  but  be  careful 
not  to  let  her  get  so  much  that  she  will  open  the  safety- 
valve  and  let  Johnny  know  we're  coming."  Next  he 
goes  forward,  examines  closely  the  torpedo-spar,  stations 
his  small  crew,  orders  the  furnace  door  closed,  and  lays 
hold  of  the  steering  -  wheel  in  the  forward  cockpit. 
"  Shove  off,"  he  orders. 

The  great  black  hull  of  the  flag-ship  slips  into  the  gloom 
ahead.  A  moment  later  the  propeller  churns  the  water, 
the  tiller  is  put  over  to  port,  the  head  of  the  launch 
swerves  to  starboard,  and  is  kept  steadily  pointed  towards 
Plymouth,  where  lies  the  great  rebel  ironclad  Albemarle, 
waiting  only  for  the  time,  speedily  coming,  when,  with 
equipment  complete,  she  will  steam  out  to  do  battle  with 
the  wooden  walls  of  her  enemies. 

After  the  fleet  has  been  left  well  astern,  the  boyish 
commander  orders  the  engines  stopped,  and  calls  the 
men  around  him. 

"  Boys,"  he  says,  "  I'm  going  to  tell  you  my  plan,  so 
that  you  may  work  it  out,  if  possible,  in  case  anything 
happens  to  me  when  we  get  under  fire.  As  soon  as  I 
make  out  the  ship  and  get  my  bearings,  I'm  going  to  put 
on  a  full  head  of  steam,  and  jump  the  launch  over  the 
logs  that  surround  her  on  the  water  side.  Once  over  the 
spars,  it  will  be  only  a  few  feet  between  us  and  the  hull; 
so  we  must  have  the  torpedo  ready  to  push  under  the 
water  against  her  side  as  soon  as  we  get  near  enough. 
On  the  dock  that  she  is  moored  to  they  have  a  couple  of 
howitzers  and  a  company  of  sharp-shooters  to  help  guard 
the  approach  from  sea,  and  on  board  they  are  sure  to  be 
prepared  to  give  us  a  warm  welcome.  I  will  keep  the 
wheel  until  we  are  over  the  logs,  then  I  will  handle  the 
torpedo,  so  see  that  it  is  clear  for  me.  But  if  I  should  fall, 
try  to  carry  out  my  plan,  then  jump  overboard,  dive 
under  the  logs,  swim  across  the  river,  and  make  your 
way  down   along  the  bank  until  you  get  abreast  of  the 


fleet,  where  you  can  signal.  That  is  all,  except  to  strip 
yourselves  for  a  swim.     Do  you  understand?" 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,  we  understand,"  comes  the  answer  from 
the  handful  of  heroes. 

The  little  wheel  under  the  stern  of  the  launch  turns 
over  slowly  and  noiselessly  as  eager,  anxious  eyes  peer 
ahead  into  the  night. 

Suddenly  a  huge  blot  is  made  out  a  little  on  the  port 
bow,  and  a  moment  later  it  shapes  itself  into  the  outlines 
of  a  dock  with  a  great  vessel  lying  alongside. 

Out  of  the  gloom  rings  the  challenge,  "  Boat  ahoy!" 

While  the  echo  of  the  last  word  trembles,  Cushing 
orders,  fiercely:    "  Give  it  to  her!     Steady,  boys!" 

The  engineer  opens  wide  the  valve,  and  throws  the 
wild  pressure  of  a  full  head  of  steam  into  the  cylinder. 
The  launch  jumps  forward  in  time  to  escape  a  shower 
of  iron  hail  that  ploughs  into  her  white  wake. 

Before  the  guns  can  be  pointed  anew  a  long  narrow 
barrier  washing  level  with  the  water  shows  a  few  feet 
ahead. 

A  sheet  of  flame  from  the  rifle -barrels  on  the  dock 
and  ship,  so  close  to  the  open  boat  that  it  scorches  the 
air  in  the  faces  of  the  crew,  makes  vivid  for  an  instant 
the  on-rushing  destroyer.  One  of  the  bluejackets  throws 
his  arms  up,  and  falls  face  downward  in  the  cockpit  just 
as  the  stem  of  the  launch  strikes  the  log. 

Will  she  go  over  it?  is  the  agonizing  thought  of  the 
brave  youth  who  stands  in  the  very  bosom  of  the  deadly 
tempest. 

The  head  of  the  boat  rears  itself  on  the  air  until  the  wa- 
ter is  splashing  into  the  stern-sheets  aft;  then,  without 
checking  her  mad  rush,  she  clears  the  barrier  like  a  stee- 
ple-chaser and  hurls  herself  forward. 

Another  volley  greets  them,  and  the  engineer  and  one 
more  of  the  sailors  go  down;  but  Lieutenant  Cushing 
springs  from  the  wheel,  grasps  the  torpedo-spar,  and  as 
the  bow  of  the  launch  strikes  the  rebel  ram  he  thrusts  it 
against  her  side  just  as  a  thick  storm  of  missiles  from  the 
howitzers  crashes  into  his  boat  and  shatters  it  to  pieces. 

But  the  doom  of  the  Albemarle  is  written.  An  awful 
rumbling  is  heard,  accompanied  by  the  sound  of  splin- 
tering timbers,  followed  by  a  towering  volume  of  torn 
and  maddened  waters  that  for  a  moment  hide  the  scene 
from  friend  and  foe,  and  under  cover  of  which  Lieuten- 
ant Cushing  regains  the  river  beyond  the  floating  logs. 

Mingled  shouts  of  command  and  cries  of  rage  are 
heard  by  the  swimmer  when  he  comes  to  the  surface 
after  his  plunge  under  the  barrier.  A  number  of  bullets 
whistle  above  his  head  and  patter  into  the  water  around 
him.  It  is  evident  that  lie  is  yet  within  the  range  of 
vision  of  the  sharp-shoolers,  so  he  draws  a  long  breath 
and  sinks  below  the  level  again,  striking  out  strong,  and 
swimming  until  forced  to  regain  the  air. 

The  confusion  of  voices  is  yet  audible,  but  when  he 
turns  his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  clamor  nothing  is 
visible  save  the  indistinct  outline  of  the  shore;  then  he 
knows  that  he  no  longer  affords  a  mark  for  the  soldiers 
on  the  dock. 

But  another  cause  of  alarm  is  quickly  manifest,  for  he 
catches  the  sound  of  the  thud  of  oars  as  they  pound 
against  the  rowlocks,  telling  him  that  the  enemy  have 
manned  a  boat  and  are  seeking  him.  Before  he  can  de- 
cide as  to  the  direction  in  which  to  swim  in  order  to  get 
out  of  the  track  of  the  on-coming  craft,  it  looms  up  only 
a  few  yards  from  him. 

There  is  onlj'  one  course  to  pursue,  so,  catching  a  quick 
breath,  he  quietly  sinks,  and  the  boat  passes  over  the  spot 
where  the  bubbles  on  the  water  mark  his  disappearance.    ' 

Until  he  experiences  a  sense  of  suffocation  he  remains 
under,  swimming  off  at  right  angles  to  the  path  of  his 
seekers,  so  that  his  head  may  not  be  in  line  with  the  eyes 
of  the  rowers  when  he  regains  the  surface. 

When  he  again  casts  his  anxious  eyes  around,  nothing 


is  seen,  so  he  throws  hiraself  on  his  back  and  floats  while 
recovering'  his  strength,  and  shortly  after  strikes  out  for 
the  opposite  bank  of  the  river,  which  he  reaches  after  a 
weary  trial,  then  creeps  into  the  underbrush,  and  sleeps 
from  exhaustion. 

The  sun  is  high  when  he  awakes.  Parting  the  wild 
foliage,  he  looks  across  and  up  the  stream  at  the  scene  of 
his  exploit.  The  dock  is  plainly  to  be  seen,  but  the  Albe- 
marle has  disappeared.  Looking  intently,  he  sees  two 
masts  rising  from  the  water  near  the  pier,  and  is  thus  as- 
sured that  the  career  of  the  rebel  ship  is  ended. 

Ha!  What  causes  that  rustling  of  the  foliage  to  his 
right?    Is  it  an  animal,  or  is  it  an  enemy  in  search  of  him? 

Almost  naked,  and  altogether  defenceless,  he  watches 
breathlessly. 

He  promises  himself  that  he  will  never  be  taken  alive. 
Better  to  die  than  to  eudure  the  tortures  of  a  Southern 
prison.  The  bushes  part  a  little  further,  and  a  man's  sun- 
browned  face  and  brawny  bare  shoulders  and  tattooed 
arms  come  into  view. 

"  Jack !"  says  the  Lieutenant,  in  a  loud,  glad  whisper. 

"Lieutenant!"  responds  the  seaman,  in  a  tone  of  equal 
surprise  and  gladness. 

All  day  the  officer  and  his  companion,  the  only  sur- 
vivors of  the  expedition,  work  their  way  painfully  through 
the  swamp,  and  just  as  the  sun  is  sinking  they  drag  their 
bare  bleeding  feet  and  cruelly  lacerated  bodies  out  on  the 
bank  of  the  river  opposite  the  Union  fleet. 

All  hands  have  been  called  to  "  make  sunset," and  the 
men  are  silently  standing  by  the  signal  halyards  and  boat- 
falls  waiting  for  the  word  of  command,  when  the  quarter- 
master on  the  bridge  of  the  flag-ship  quickly  levels  his 
telescope  at  the  shore,  then  hurriedly  approaches  and  ad- 
dresses the  officer  of  the  deck,  who  stands  beside  the  Cap- 
tain. The  latter  takes  the  glass  from  the  seaman,  peers 
through  it  for  an  instant,  wheels  sharply  around,  and 
speaks  to  the  Lieutenant. 

"Away,  first  cutter!"  roars  the  latter. 

The  boatswain's  mate  blows  a  shrill  pipe,  and  repeats 
the  order. 

"Go  down  the  boat- falls,  boys;  lively's  the  word! 
Jump  into  the  cutter,  Mr.  Arnold,  and  pull  into  the  beach 
for  the  men !" 

Half  an  hour  later  Lieutenant  Gushing  comes  over  the 
gangway,  and  salutes  the  Commodore.  "  I  report  my  re- 
turn on  board  with  one  man,  sir,"  he  says;  "the  Albe- 
marle is  destroyed." 


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